


Falling Further

by EvilDime



Series: Crossing Over [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Did I Mention Crack?, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Rebirth, Red Pants Monday, Reference Jokes, Shower Sex, WAFF, Wakanda, dance-off, enhanced Everett, so many reference jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: Everett and Stephen spend a few weeks in Wakanda....The Johnlock AU sequel to Rebirth, chapter II.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This follows directly after the end of chapter II of Rebirth.  
> I got a request on FFN for "Everett being all masculine and strong and easily able to pick up Stephen and carry him bridal style". I went "Huh? I can't see that happening." Then I thought: "Just suppose I wanted to, how _would_ I do it?"  
> ...So this happened. It was supposed to be just a tiny humorous, slashy divergence from Rebirth. Instead, it's more than twice the length of the original fic, counting both chapters, and a seriously Strange mixture of crack and fluff with a side of angst at that. I think it's even weirder and has even less of a plot than the original fic... I had fun writing, though. :P
> 
> Oh yeah, one more thing: Name confusions between incarnations are intentional. Everett sometimes thinks of himself and Stephen by whatever name most fits the situation at hand (like when they have sex for the first time, which he's been secretly fantasizing about for more than a lifetime...)

* * *

King T'Challa was mighty startled when his good friend Everett Ross stepped out of a burning magical circle smack in the middle of the battle, accompanied by a strange character with curly black hair, wide-set eyes and a colorful cloak.

"Everett! How are you here?"

"Your Majesty, this is my friend Stephen Strange. He got us here by magic." Everett looked delighted by the entire affair. "Stephen, King T'Challa of Wakanda, my friend of many years."

"Your friend is a _cat_?" the tall stranger said, ducking a vicious-looking ray of pure light.

"It's a suit, don't be ridiculous," Everett answered, side-stepping some kind of projectile.

T'Challa nodded to Strange, who returned his nod with only a little hesitation, then they all turned around to stand back to back. T'Challa knew he could trust Everett to have his back, and if Everett trusted this man...

"So whom exactly are we fighting?" he heard from behind him as he batted aside a beam of eerie violet light with his claws. Mister Strange had an unexpectedly deep voice, he thought.

"They are cultists," he answered, "believers in a god of death and destruction."

"Dormammu?" came the sharp inquiry, accompanied by a similar humming sound to what had accompanied the opening of the fiery portal. Everett's pocket gun barked sharply to his left.

"No, I did not quite catch the name, but that wasn't it."

The man let out a relieved breath and T'Challa wondered at the story there. From the corner of one eyes, he saw a red mist strike down his opponent, followed by Wanda streaking from the cover of one tree to the next.

"Was that...?" Everett asked hesitantly.

Moving forward a little to deflect another presumably magic spell, he growled "What?" Having Everett and his friend here to help was a blessing as much as it was a curse. Everett's current position made it highly inconvenient for him to know that T'Challa was harboring the Captain and his friends in his fortress.

"It's just... I know, of course, that you would never go against the Accords your father fought so hard for, despite the fact they were never formally passed. So of course I will never accuse you of aiding fugitives from international law." Another shot rang out, followed by a strangled cry and the cessation of the spell-casting from his nine o'clock. "I do believe in the saying that the enemies of my enemies are my friends, though. If, by this token, you happened to know if a certain group of _friends_ had all made it out of the confusion whole and uninjured, I would be rather grateful for the information."

T'Challa smirked. Trust Everett to play fast and lose with the rules when he felt the need. "You are, of course, correct in assuming that I would never open my house to criminals who are a danger to the populace. Let me assure you, though, that if a group of your friends came by in search of a place to rest and recover, they would always be most welcome. They'd find medical care here, little though they might need it, and a safe place to get their heads back on straight and figure out how to proceed."

Strange muffled a laugh behind him, while Everett replied with a quiet "Thank you."

"Well, safe at least unless a group of magic-wielding nuts attacked it," T'Challa added.

For a few minutes, they fought in silence, then some sort of blue-glowing grenade landed between them. "Get back!" Strange yelled and pushed at them both. Explosions, yelling, and a lot of running around in an odd, unnatural fog followed. Confusion reigned supreme.

At some point, T'Challa thought he saw Everett bend down to pick up a bracelet, put it on and _grow_ somehow, but that might have been a trick the fog played on him. He would be very happy once this entire mess was over and done with.

An earth-shattering _boom_ split the air, followed by a man crying out like all the light had vanished from the earth. _"S_ _tephen_ _, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

* * *

Fighting beside his friend again felt like his world had been spinning several degrees off its axis for all of this life, and now it was finally back on course. Everett was smiling wildly as he took down foe after foe.

Stephen, to his left, obviously still had all of his wits about him, but his weapons nowadays were rather different. He used neither guns nor lances of fire; instead he constructed extravagant designs of light and magic in the space of a second or three, which he pushed out at his enemies to devastating effect. His cloak was like a living entity around him, blocking enemy fire and sometimes tugging his head out of the way as though it had a mind of its own.

Everett would be the first to admit that he was not dedicating his full attention to the fight. Luckily, he had two highly competent men at his back, so his own shortcomings were more than made up for.

The explosion took them all by surprise - that magic grenade or whatever it was had come out of nowhere!

Everett rolled, got back up with his back already bent down, and ran for cover. After that, things got really confusing for a while. He thought he saw Captain America flash past him through the fog, his shield reflecting the beams of light just as T'Challa's claws had done. Apparently, vibranium was a handy material to have around in a magic fight.

A tall, incredibly _built_ stranger in a weird get-up and with bloody teeth brandishing a staff at him suddenly appeared out of the fog. Everett lifted his gun, but hesitated to shoot. He had seen a few of the magic attackers, and this one was different. Maybe he was on their side? "Are you with the king?" he asked politely.

"We are Chaos!" the man roared at him, brandishing the staff in his impressively large fist. "We are Anarchy! We are Strength! We will NEVER bow down to some ridiculous _human_ king! We-"

Everett shot him, Indiana Jones style.

The tall guy stumbled back a step, straightened up again and attacked Everett, despite the neat hole piercing the left side of his chest. Maybe he had his heart on the other side? It happened sometimes, John's medical background told him.

_Not currently relevant,_ a luckily situationally aware part of his brain informed him. He shot again before the muscular arm could come down upon him, this time neatly piercing the man's right chest. Again, it barely slowed him down. 

Fuck.

Panicking just the tiniest bit, Everett reached into his left pocket and withdrew a little present he had gotten in return to forwarding some video snippets he shouldn't even have had. With Stark down for the count and the Captain gone, the choice for Best Person to Contact with Relevant Information was clear as far as he was concerned. Said person had obviously appreciated his decision. 

The Widow's Bite hit the mountain of muscle in the forehead and he finally dropped to the ground, twitching. Everett didn't lose a second in ripping the huge knife he had spotted at the man's hip from its holster and applying it to his carotid artery. It was messy, and harder work than it had any right to be, but finally his opponent stopped twitching. 

Everett started to get up when a tinkling noise gave him pause. The ground underneath his feet was grass, earth and leaves. Nothing had the right to tinkle on a surface like that. The sight that met his eyes had them growing large and disbelieving. 

The muscular specimen he had fought not two seconds ago had withered down to an older man of barely average height with hardly any muscles at all. What kind of magic was this?

Coming closer to observe the final moments of the transformation, he stepped on something hard and unyielding. It was a bracelet, sparkling with light despite the fog and apparently having _tinkled_ at him with nothing to reverberate against. 

Everett picked it up, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before putting it on. Magical artifacts were unpredictable and often dangerous to the uninitiated, sure. But he was also a _Master Burglar_ and picking up tricky little pieces of jewelery had worked out for him spectacularly well in the past. Why stop now? 

He might not have changed his habits, but putting on the bracelet did change his physique rather notably. All of a sudden, the ground was much further away than usual. His pants ripped, his shirt was in danger of strangling him and he had to pull off his shoes in a hurry before they could squeeze his feet into angry red lumps. Looking down at his own arms and hands, he saw enough muscle to rival the guy he had taken the bracelet from. 

Well.

Well fuck. 

That was some mighty fine jewelery.

Everett took the bracelet off again, and immediately shrank back down to his own size. He frowned, then put it on again. With magic spells, bullets, vibranium shields and lord knew what else flying through this fog, a body that could take a bullet as though it was a mosquito sting rather seemed the safest option. Even though it took him a moment to sort out his much larger limbs. 

Eventually, he started moving around again, enjoying the feel of his own upgraded body easily pounding the ground, jumping over fallen trees that would have stymied his usual body and not even breathing faster. 

He saw who he thought might be Barton sitting in one of the trees, shooting interesting arrows down into the melée, gave the startled man a salute and ran on. Ripping through some lianae, he suddenly exited onto a clearing and stopped dead. 

In the middle of the clearing, Stephen was facing off with another magician. Spells were flying at incredible speed and precision and with more destructive power than Everett had ever witnessed. Trees were flung about, caught fire or suddenly exploded in a shower of knife-like missiles. The earth itself burst open and emitted hot lava and lances of stone that drilled their way out and flew through the air, only to melt when hitting against shields of pure light that appeared in the air. 

Pulling himself together, Everett started slinking around to attack the enemy magician from behind.

"Stay back!" Stephen yelled, pointedly not looking at Everett, never giving his position away to the enemy. If his opponent knew Everett was there, he didn't let it show. Neither magician took their eyes off each other for even a second.

Then it happened. Everett wasn't quite sure _how,_ but from one second to the next, both men went from standing up to flying backwards, with a hard landing knocking all the breath out of their lungs. 

Everett sprinted over to the enemy. He got there in time to see the man breathe his last, having been overwhelmed by whatever Stephen had flung at him. Checking for a pulse and finding none, Everett looked over towards Stephen. 

The man wasn't getting up either.

Everett dropped the dead wrist from his hand, jumped up and ran over to Stephen like the Hound of Baskerville was after him. 

"Stephen?" he yelled out, breathless after all. "Stephen, are you okay? Smaug? Sherlock, mate? Say something!!"

He reached his friend's prone body at the same time as his eyes confirmed what he had already feared, but refused to believe: The stone lance he'd seen before was not sticking up beside his friend. But through him.

_"Stephen, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"_

"Your new body has a loud organ, I'm impressed," Stephen's voice spoke beside him.

"What...?!" A spectral vision of Stephen was hanging in the air to his right, wincing while it was sticking a finger in its ear.

"Are you dead?!" he asked, terrified.

"Not quite yet, that's what I'm here to tell you. Never mind this body now, it's just an astral projection. Ignore it."

"Ignore...?"

"No time," Stephen said in a clipped tone. "I am dying, but I think you are enough of a surgeon to stop it. Break off that stone pillar, keep it inside my body, and get all of it - all of me and the stone, that is - to the nearest medical facility and get to work. I'm assuming you remember your skill set from two lives ago?" The skeptical eyebrow was all Sherlock.

"I - yes, of course..." Dazed, Everett set to work before his brain was even halfway done processing what was happening. It was a good thing that he was used to obeying his friend even when half his orders only made sense to him afterwards. If ever. Even more lucky that he was used to working in the field, with guns repeating and men dying right, left and center. He could do this.

Testing his new body's strength, he leaned on the stone pillar and broke it off above Stephen's shoulder. Then he hurriedly dug down to see how far it went, choked out a frustrated hiss and ended up also breaking it off somewhere below. Stephen's right shoulder now had about a foot of stone sticking out the front and back.

Everett considered and dismissed the thought of a stretcher in a heartbeat. "Brace yourself," he ordered, then carefully shoved his hands underneath Stephen's chest and knees, picking him up bridal style. Distress lanced hotly through his body as he remembered their banter about Stephen carrying him through the air that way when they left for Wakanda. That was what, an hour or two ago? He'd only just regained his friend, he could not lose him now!

Ignoring the fog, the last skirmishes and the moaning of the wounded littering the ground, Everett got a firm grip on Stephen and ran for all he was worth. The guards let him enter despite his changed appearance when he gave them the password. He knew his way around T'Challa's domain and made it to the medical facility in less than five minutes. Still too much by his count, but at least Stephen was still breathing.

"Quick, get the theater ready," he ordered a doctor he'd never seen before as he passed him, depositing Stephen on the nearest stretcher and hurrying over to a sink to thoroughly scrub his hands and face, getting off as much of the blood as he could before scrubbing up and joining the medical team now flocked around Stephen. The anesthetist was just preparing to put him under all the way.

"Stop!" Stephen let his voice be heard, once more appearing in his astral form. Everyone but Everett jumped and backed off. "Stay! He will need help." No-one wanted to argue with what appeared to be an angry ghost, so stay they did, but at as much of a safe distance as they could. Stephen turned to Everett. "I need you to _not_ put me out for this. I want this done right, so I'll be right here to advise you."

"Order me around, you mean."

"Semantics," Stephen cut him off, then stared straight at him. "Also, I need you to take off that magical artifact. Your mind remembers how to be the great surgeon I know you are, but your body does not. Dealing with hands three sizes too large will not help with that."

John quickly nodded his agreement and took off the bracelet. He was swimming a little in his scrubs now, but it was manageable and they couldn't lose any more time. So he shrugged twice to get the cloth to settle more comfortably around his now narrow shoulders and otherwise ignored it.

Then he got down to work.

* * *

Afterwards, things got very awkward very fast.

Everett's team arrived in time to pick up after the battle, which was fine because by then the Avengers had evacuated the scene. When his men were ready to leave with some prisoners in store, though, Everett declared his intention to stay in Wakanda to watch over his friend's recovery. That ended up being his second battle of the day, if only a verbal one, fought out via video conference rather than on an actual battlefield. It was grueling all the same.

Much easier was his request to T'Challa to let him stay for however many weeks it took. His friend informed him in no uncertain terms that the Deputy Task Force Commander was not welcome here, but that Everett Ross, civilian, would always have a place in his home. Since Everett had just negotiated several weeks of compensatory time-off, he saw no problem with that.

The rogue Avengers also staying at the fortress were not pleased with the arrangement at all, though.

"You gave the order to shoot on sight when your men went after Bucky," a stony-faced Captain America said. "I do not want you anywhere near him, especially not when he's so vulnerable."

The Falcon, Scarlet Witch, Hawkeye and the amateur burglar - in his modest professional opinion - whose call sign kept slipping his mind all stood behind the Captain with equally disapproving glares.

T'Challa had informed Everett of Barnes's decision to go back on ice, and Everett had winced at the implications. He knew from personal, very recent experience how wonderful it was to regain a friend lost ages ago, and how very, very hard it would be to give that back up again. In fact...

"Today, I regained a friend I had not even known I'd lost," he said, seemingly a propos of nothing. "I nearly lost him again in the fight with those bloody cultists. Believe me when I say I can relate to what you are currently going through." He made a pause to let that sink in, then added: "Also, I was working on incomplete and factually incorrect information when I gave that order. I sincerely apologize."

The Captain's eyes narrowed. "So you no longer intend to kill or imprison him?"

Everett steepled his fingers atop his propped-up knee. He was sitting down at the conference table, in his regular body, and looking up at all those standing super-heroes gave him both a conversational disadvantage and a crick in the neck. Standing up now would make him look even weaker, though, and not that much taller. "The standing order," - he winced at his own wording - "at the moment is for all of your capture, followed by a public trial to finally get to the bottom of things. Zemo told his story, but we have precious little proof and hardly any eye witness accounts to substantiate it with. Getting one of you into a courtroom to hear your side would help immensely." He raised his eyebrows in a challenge to the Captain.

"Disregarding all of that, though," he went on when the Captain just glared at him sullenly and stepped closer to the Falcon, "I am not here in an official capacity. As I said, my friend was injured earlier and I am here strictly as his friend and doctor. I have absolutely no intention of trying to capture anyone while here. ...I mean, look at me." He put on his best 'I'm just a harmless Hobbit, ignore me' face and was suddenly happy he had chosen not to wear the bracelet to this meeting.

The Captain frowned, looking over at T'Challa who was acting as mediator. "You trust this man?" he asked, rather roughly, considering he was speaking to this country's sovereign.

T'Challa inclined his head. "With my life."

"And what about ours?"

"Oh, how dull!" a voice suddenly rang out - a voice that had absolutely no business being at this meeting.

"Stephen! You're supposed to be resting," Everett scolded.

The astral projection that had stepped through the wall beside the Captain walked over to stand beside Everett, rolling its eyes as it went. "My body will not be negatively affected if I... let my mind wander," he scoffed. "Besides, you look like you could use the help."

"Dude, that's a ghost," someone remarked.

Everett looked from Stephen to the stubborn Captain and back. "Be my guest." He leaned back and waited for the fireworks.

"Steve Rogers," Stephen began, "you are an individual with incredibly little social awareness. You are staying here, enjoying the King's hospitality - which could be immensely damaging to his reputation and his country's standing in the world if anyone found out - and you have the gall to question his decisions concerning his and your safety? I gather you are just a kid from Brooklyn, but do you not understand the sheer _insult_ inherent in your doubt?"

"Who are you, and why would I care one whit about what you think?" the Captain replied, flushing.

"Captain. You're arguing with a _ghost_ ," the same guy who spoke earlier repeated. Scott something. ...meh, wasn't important. The Captain seemed to think so too, because again he ignored the man's words, while one of his companions, Hawkeye, replied: "Not everyone who can walk through walls is a ghost, you remember the guy at the airport with the purple skin...?"

"My name is Stephen Strange," Stephen loftily declared, "you may call me Doctor Strange, or just Doctor."

Everett suppressed a snigger at the Captain's outraged face. He'd known putting these two into a room together would be fun, but he'd had no idea just how much!

"Also," Stephen continued, "while I am not a ghost, this version of me is not physically present at the moment. This is an astral projection."

Wanda Maximoff perked up at the words. "How do you...?"

"Not important right now," Stephen dismissed the question. "What is important" - he focused on Captain America again - "is the fact that King T'Challa has no obligation to even allow this talk. All of us are enjoying his hospitality; we do not get a say in who else he invites. If one of us does not like the company, they are always free to go."

Which was quite laughable, considering that the four rogue Avengers and the Winter Soldier had no place else to go and not be hunted, while Stephen himself was in no condition to travel at all.

Nobody laughed, though. Some considering glances were exchanged, and while Rogers's cheeks were still flushed bright red, he proved that he was not known as a good strategist for nothing by finally shutting up. He even apologized to King T'Challa. Things might have calmed down then, but of course Stephen was bored out of his gourd already with lying in a hospital bed, so he deliberately picked another fight. Everett didn't care how much he protested the accusation later, that was precisely what he did.

"So," he said, examining his nails, "were you aware that your frozen Soldier Boy has metal implants in his brain?"

"WHAT!" the Captain roared. "If you have cut Bucky open, I swear to god-"

"No need to get all excited," Stephen said, calm as you please. Of course, he was not even physically in the room, so it was easy for him to feel safe. Everett started getting worried about Stephen's body lying unprotected in medical, though; he resolved to keep an eye on everyone present. If one of them left the room, he'd have to go after them. His friend had always had a way of making people want to just shoot him, and apparently all the meditation and training he did at Kamar-Taj hadn't entirely erased that.

"I never even touched him," he said. "I merely did a magical scan."

"You accessed his brain." The Scarlet Witch sounded intrigued and horrified in equal measure. Given her history, Everett could somewhat understand either reaction.

"You WHAT?!" Rogers shouted again, kept back from jumping across the table, presumably to punch the astral specter, only by his friends' arms on his shoulders.

"I did him no harm," Stephen said, mimicking sitting down next to Everett in a casually relaxed pose, finally ceasing the intense study of his nails and looking across the table at the raging Captain. "I just had a quick peek. And I don't know what those implants do, of course, but I really think you should have that looked at. One of them is poking him in the Hippocampus, which I just don't think can be good for anyone's long-term memory, or do you, Doctor?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, who quickly nodded his agreement. He wasn't a neurosurgeon, but he had attended those lectures.

He didn't even notice that he was once again accessing memories from a previous life until the smirk on Stephen's lips let him know he'd fallen for some kind of trick. Only then did he realize he had thought of them both as Sherlock and John when Stephen addressed him as 'Doctor'.

"I was not aware you had studied medicine, my friend," T'Challa was saying right on cue, earning Everett some even more suspicious glances from the Avengers.

"I have," Everett said blandly, "just not in this life."

"In which life then?" T'Challa asked, wanting to take his words at face value, but not sure what to make of them.

"The one two before this one, actually," Stephen entered the conversation. "I helped him remember, so he was able to competently care for my wounds earlier today."

"You can tell people about their previous lives? And... wait, there _are_ previous lives?" The not-so-successful burglar asked in amazement. Bilbo should probably stop thinking of him only in terms of his career, but... Well. Professional pride.

"No, kid," Stephen replied, "I cannot. Unless they are me and Everett here. Our lives have been rather closely connected in the past." A happy, boyish smile was directed Everett's way, which he returned with interest.

Kid, though. "You make me feel old," Everett complained. "Looking at a bloke not even that much younger than me and finding myself agreeing with your assessment that he's just a kid makes me much too aware of every one of those years spent running after you in previous lives."

"Or riding me," Smaug grinned. "Although, unlike me, at least you didn't have to wait _centuries_ for our previous meeting. Imagine how dull!"

"This is getting weird," Hawkeye commented. "Does anyone else think it's getting weird?" Burglar Failure raised his hand. _Screw it_ , Bilbo thought, _that will just have to be his name._ _I don't care_.

"I had no idea you two were an item," Wilson commented.

That wiped the grin off of both their faces. An item?

"Are we?" Everett asked cautiously.

Stephen's face did that thing it always did when Sherlock was off in his mind palace, putting together significant clues from seemingly random details. Faster than expected, he snapped back into the present. "There is evidence to support the theory, but not all of it adds up," he offered.

"Evidence?" Everett asked cautiously. The Avengers and T'Challa were blessedly silent, probably watching them like cats at a tennis match. He didn't care, his eyes were on his friend.

"We have shared an apartment in each of our previous lives. We know more about each other than most close friends do. For example, do you still wear red pants each Monday?"

Hot color creeped into John's cheeks and he felt a burning need to retaliate. However, he knew he rarely ever won a verbal sparring match with Sherlock, so rather than embarrass himself in front of an audience by trying and failing, he decided to _own_ those pants. Hence, pulling down the belt around his fight-worn suit an inch or so, he showed off his red underwear to the group. "Will you look at that, it's Monday!"

Then he narrowed his eyes and gave Stephen a tight grin. "And what about you, vain lizard? Still throw out more than other people make in a year for a bespoke coat?"

"I'll have you know I paid nothing for my current cloak, which is the best garment ever!" Stephen looked triumphant, and despite knowing he would be the one made to look a fool when Stephen came out of this conversation on top as he nearly always did, Everett loved seeing the victorious delight on his friend's face, his bright, lively eyes, his bea- Well, okay. He didn't love the beard.

"Say, that thing on your face...," Everett said, making Stephen look a bit miffed at the lack of praise for his most impressive cloak. "You don't think you could shave it off, could you? It's a bit..."

"Is it?"

"It really is."

"...I suppose neither of us are meant to wear beards," Stephen pouted.

"If we'd been meant for beards, we'd have been born dwarves."

"Heh, no. I liked being a dragon."

Everett grinned. "It was kind of fun."

"Being. A dragon," a voice was heard from the other side of the table. "Say what??"

"Different part of the multiverse," Stephen waved them off again. "Not relevant to the point at hand. Which is" - once more, his eyes spine-tinglingly focused on Everett to the exclusion of all else - "that there are facts to both support and disprove the notion of us being, as Mister Wilson so quaintly put it, 'an item'."

"So we have living in each other's pockets for as long as we've known each other on the pro side," Everett repeated. "What's on contra?"

"Physical intimacy," Stephen answered like a shot. "Never had that."

"Well... it _is_ hard for a Hobbit to be physically intimate with a _dragon_ , Smaug."

Stephen harrumphed. "I am a genius. I'd have found a way."

Everett looked at him askance. "I love you dearly, Smaug, but that is one scary thought."

Stephen's face lit up. "And here's the other salient point to this discussion: Love! They say love is not entirely necessary, but highly encouraged in any relationship. If we were indeed an 'item', wouldn't we have to feel some of that for each other? It was never mentioned, though. But now listen to you!"

Everett blushed again. "Figure of speech," he mumbled. But then he reconsidered. "Although... We _have_ always been ready to die for each other, and several times nearly did." His face turned stony. "I am still mad at you for the time you faked it and let me mourn you for an entire two years, I hope you know that!"

Stephen managed to look somewhat contrite as they both ignored the choking noises from the peanut gallery, as well as Wilson's whispered "You and Barnes have got them beat by about seventy years, Steve."

"I do know that, John, and I swear to you it will never happen again. If you ever see me die in front of you again, you'll know it's real."

"So not helping, Sherlock." Everett's head made a satisfactory _thunk_ as it hit the table. He straightened up again and wiped at his bruised forehead with a moan.

"What's with all the different names? Is that an inside joke I'm not getting?" he heard one of the Avengers murmur.

"Dude, no, they said several lives, didn't they? Would have been odd for them to always carry the same names, wouldn't it?"

"I guess... Still, man: a dragon??"

Everett blanked them out and put his hand next to Stephen's astral face. "Do you not realize you nearly died in front of me again, today, when I'd only just got you back?"

Stephen's face softened. "But I didn't die, John. You saved me, just like you always do."

Everett looked into those eyes that meant the world to him. And suddenly, it was all rather obvious. "We have all the hallmarks of an old married couple and all that's missing is physical intimacy, did I sum that up correctly?"

Stephen frowned, but didn't find fault with the statement if his reluctant nod was any indication.

"Well, then let us just be intimate and the matter is settled!" Everett was proud of his logical conclusion.

"Would you... want to? You never showed any inclination before."

"Smaug: _dragon_!"

"Okay, but what about before? There was _Mary..._ "

"You _died,_ Sherlock! I was trying to get over you!"

"Oh, is that all she was?" Sherlock looked way too delighted by that idea.

"Of course it wasn't. You know me better than that." John gave him his most punishing glare.

Sherlock drooped. "I do, in fact. You would not use a lady like that. And no matter her murderous background, she was one fine lady."

"Like Irene Adler was, despite her rather questionable morality," John noted, mouth twisting.

"32-24-34," was all Sherlock said. John sighed, defeated. It was a good argument.

"Sam, you told me gays were legal and somewhat accepted now. Is this, too?" Everett heard Rogers quietly asking the Falcon. He didn't quite catch Wilson's answer, but it put a shy smile on Rogers's face. And Everett did hear his quiet "That is good to know."

He looked at Stephen. Stephen looked back.

"So, we're bisexual, huh?"

"It would seem so," Stephen answered. "Back to the relevant issues: Would you?"

"Stephen." Everett pursed his lips. "Have you known me to propose many things I didn't actually want to do?"

"Well, no." He blinked. "So, yes, then?"

"If _you_ also want to. Then yes." It was excruciating laying his desires bare like that without first having his friend's confirmation that it was mutual. But it had always been that way, hadn't it? Stephen was the genius, whereas the emotions were Everett's domain. Which meant he once again had to put his heart out there and hope that Stephen wouldn't trample all over it.

He didn't. Although... "I would like that," Stephen said quietly. "I think we should probably wait until I don't have a three inch hole in my shoulder, though."

Oh. Right.

Everett huffed a frustrated breath. "Bad timing, as always."

"'As always'?" Stephen inquired.

Everett blushed, but then relented. "Well. There was this one moment where I was high on adrenaline, and you knelt in front of me and I did feel some desire, but it was a bit of a bad time for..."

"John. Please tell me you're not talking about the Pool."

Everett tried to look nonchalant despite his flaming cheeks. "I am not talking about the Pool," he parroted lamely.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. "I knew you had a craving for danger, but thinking of sex while strapped into semtex is a bit extreme, even for you."

Again, Everett tried to ignore their audience, but it was getting harder with comments like "hard-core", "crazy" and "this pint-sized guy??" - "Shut up, I was smaller than him before the serum!" and "Yes, and probably just as suicidal." flying around.

He forced a smile. "Dear Stephen," he said, in a dangerously polite tone. "How about we finish this discussion after you have healed a bit?" In a much darker tenor, he added: "You might not live to see that day otherwise."

Stephen actually gulped. "I bow to your superior knack for violence, Mister Marksman."

"You better," Everett growled, ignoring Barton's keen scrutiny at the title.

Stephen's astral body vanished. Everett tiredly sank back into his chair and looked around at the gathered Avengers and King T'Challa.

T'Challa lifted a brow. "You and your friend have an interesting dynamic, Everett."

In the background, Wilson and Rogers were still whispering. "But you like Natasha, don't you?"

Everett's head hit the table again with another heavy _thunk_.

* * *

It took several weeks for the wound in Stephen's shoulder to heal enough that he could move around without sustaining any damage. Sadly, it had turned out that the bracelet Everett found had bonded with him personally and could not be loaned to Stephen to speed along his recovery. Hence the wound needing to heal the normal way. King T'Challa did have great physical therapists, though, and the medical facility was overall pretty great. Also, John had fixed the wound up perfectly, with - or maybe despite - the help of Stephen's astral self giving gobs of unsolicited advice while he worked.

Of course, only an idiot would have expected Stephen to stay in bed as long as John's and Stephen's own medical training suggested would be wisest.

After only a week had passed, he lurked in the background of Everett's video conference with Stark where they discussed the strictly hypothetical use of metal brain implants in connection with an enhanced body, as well as the possible repercussions of their removal. Some - naturally manufactured and entirely theoretical - brain and body scans were passed back and forth and Stephen actually had to fight hard to keep a straight face when Everett primly thanked Stark for sharing his expertise and ended the call, blithely ignoring the man's desperate hints about absent friends.

Two weeks after the surgery, Stephen could be seen hovering above one of the balconies, showing off his cloak to Wanda and Sam.

Week three had him helping T'Challa question the stubborn prisoners who had maintained their silence since the battle. Some spot-on deductions had them believing he already knew all about their organization; after that, the interviews went much more smoothly.

About a month after the battle, it appeared that Stephen's patience - never his strongest suit - was finally all used up. He had grudgingly agreed to rest his body and only be present in his astral form to guide John and the best neurosurgeon T'Challa could get his hands on in removing the implants from Barnes's brain. But afterwards, he shot back into his body, got up and followed Everett into his suite wearing his own body.

"Stephen," Everett said, a bit surprised but welcoming. "Come in. I was just about to have a shower, but you're welcome to-"

"Join you?"

Startled, Everett stopped in the middle of pulling off his shirt, got tangled up and spent a number of seconds cursing and fighting his way free. Finally, he emerged, all disheveled and wide-eyed. "Yes, actually," he said, "that would be lovely."

He shot a quick glance at Stephen's shoulder, but the wound was healing well; a water-resistant wrap worked for any shower Stephen took by himself, why not for a shared one? "Just see to it that you don't strain that arm, alright?"

Stephen was already casting off his own shirt and reaching for the bandages with his left. He merely scoffed at Everett. Of course. Being a neurosurgeon, then losing it all due to an accident he himself had caused had finally taught Stephen once and for all to take better care of his body. He was not about to needlessly endanger that arm.

He _was_ about to slip on the tiles and break something in his lithe, now buck-naked body, though, and Everett grunted with pain as he propped his stumbling friend up. "Enhanced would probably be better," he mumbled once Stephen was stabilized, trying to ignore the nakedness for now. He carried the bracelet in a trouser pocket, attached to his belt with a key chain, nowadays, so it was never far. He took it out now, stepped out of his trousers and put it on.

Immediately, his body expanded in all directions and his point of view shifted. He did not get vertigo as badly as he had done the first few times he had tried this since the battle, and by now he was also more in control of his own strength. Once, he had even sparred with Captain America, which had hurt like nothing sacred, but had also been so much fun.

He felt Stephen's eyes on him. He looked at his friend's face, watching the eyes' progress from his face down his muscular chest to his broad hands besides slender hips and now rather painfully tight black pants (it was Sunday). There, the eyes apparently got caught, for they stopped moving and focused.

"That looks uncomfortable," Stephen remarked blithely. "Allow me to assist." He stepped closer and, after a quick searching look up at Everett's face, laid his hands on Everett's hips. Everett tensed and stood very still while Stephen started to slowly, carefully roll down those pants. He was tugging mostly with his left hand, the right only supporting a little, but the coordinated effort did get the job done.

Everett let him do as he pleased, trying not to notice how his prick perked up and took a vivid interest in the proceedings. He allowed Stephen to tug him into the shower and turn on all of the shower heads.

The bathroom in Everett's guest suite in T'Challa's fortress was extravagant, and calling this place of aquatic delight a shower did not do it justice. First of all, the area separated from the rest of the room by artistically painted glass walls was wide enough to easily fit two grown men. Secondly, the water did not just fall from a single shower head, but rather shot from a multitude of them, set into the ceiling and into three of the walls - including the sliding glass ones (Everett refused to spend brain power on the question how that was possible). Finally, the shelf along the fourth side bore more products pertaining to hair and body than he'd ever seen in one place that was not a shelf in a supermarket.

Stephen had chosen a mild setting, so now they stood side by side under the warm, pleasant rain, sprinkled from all around by gentle, soft droplets while steam gathered around their ankles. For a moment, both men just stood there, eyes closed, enjoying the warm water and the calm.

The surgery had been grueling. Hydra had not meant for those implants to ever come out, and they had nearly lost their patient twice. In the end, though, the team of Stephen and Everett - oh, and that specialist T'Challa contracted, he did kind of help, too - had emerged victorious and Barnes's body was now making super-strength steps toward a full recovery. They'd see if his brain had taken any damage from the changes only after he woke up, but they were both rather confident. They were the best at what they did, after all.

"You did rather well. For a field surgeon," Stephen remarked, eyes still closed.

"You were pretty good yourself - for a stoned reptile," Everett batted away the questionable compliment. He wasn't even being insulting, Stephen was still on some drugs for his shoulder.

“I'll have you know I was the _best_ neurosurgeon in all of -”

“Of course you were,” Everett interrupted. “You always were proud of being the absolute best there is at anything you really put your mind to.” The words should have been condescending or mean, but instead Everett realized he just sounded fond.

Stephen seemed to think so too. He barely even frowned. The single line carved into his forehead looked adorable from this perspective.

Everett realized with a start that he was looking _down_ at Stephen. He'd never been taller than his friend in all their lives, and while it felt unsettling, it was also really fascinating. He could reach out and lay a hand on Stephen's shoulder, the other on his cheek, and bend _down_ to kiss him…

It was odd, he thought, how attractive thin lips could be. People always rhapsodized about warm, soft, or – heavens forbid – 'plush' lips, but he wasn't a fan. This right here – firm, unyielding, demanding lips, this was what he wanted.

“You're just doing this because you enjoy being taller than me,” Sherlock dead-panned against his own barely-there thin stripes of lip. Hot water ran down both their faces and a droplet of it got caught in the little crease above Stephen's mouth. Everett felt his gaze drawn there, then his lips followed and finally his tongue took the droplet away.

Stephen gave a little startled jerk, but then pressed closer, getting Everett to trail his tongue over more of his face. He outlined the mouth, licked at one cheek, the eyebrows, and kissed each eye.

“You are absolutely right,” he murmured in Stephen's ear. “I love being taller than you for once, if only because it enables me to do _this_.” His hands slid around Stephen's back to cup his pert arse cheeks. Then he lifted the man up.

Stephen sucked in a sharp breath but did not protest. His legs came up to wrap around Everett's hips, his good arm took a tight hold of Everett's right shoulder while the damaged arm loosely settled on the other.

Everett was thoroughly pleased with himself. He was able to lift Stephen up, and now he had his friend naked and writhing in his arms; and he could feel a hard shaft poking him in the belly.

Lovely.

His own erection was brushing up against Stephen's ass, making the man moan in a wonderfully indecent way.

“Have you ever had sex with a man?” Stephen breathed harshly into his ear.

“No,” Everett confessed. He was sure that Sherlock, in his drug-addled younger days, had made all sorts of experiences. He imagined he could tangibly feel the aloofness rolling off of Stephen, so he quickly added: “I am familiar with anal sex, though, albeit only the active part.”

“It's a good thing that is all that's required at the moment, then,” Stephen replied, his tone every bit as haughty as Everett had expected. So it took him a moment to parse the man's meaning.

“You want me to…?”

Stephen nodded.

“Now?”

“No, during the next apocalypse.” Rolling his eyes, Stephen reached around and grabbed Everett's cock for emphasis. Everett gasped.

“Alright, alright!” He looked around a bit frantically and his roaming eyes fell on the soap. Not perfect, but… - Stephen gave him a couple of inspiring tugs - ...yes. Yes, it would do.

Shifting his grip (and trying not to enthuse out loud about how he could hold Stephen up one-handed), Everett reached for the bottle of soap and pumped out a liberal amount. “Are you quite sure about this?” he asked, voice calmer than he felt.

“Don't make me wait,” Stephen replied, tugging again.

“Great,” Everett said and reached between Stephen's cheeks. “Then once more unto the breach!”

Stephen seemed all set to roll his eyes at him again, but then Everett's index finger slipped in. So instead, his eyes fell shut as his mouth opened and a broken, needy sound emerged.

“This alright?” Everett asked solicitously, slowly moving his finger around.

“Yessss,” Stephen breathed, keeping his eyes firmly closed. He leaned forward to rest his upper body more securely against Everett's chest, hands now flexing on his hips. He obviously trusted Everett not to let him fall, and the act of trust woke some fierce hunger inside of John.

Sherlock, Smaug, Stephen – he had always seemed so strong and unflappable. Capable. Dominant. To see him as this needy creature trusting in Everett's ability to hold him, to hold it together for the both of them… It was more than he had ever imagined. The nails of his left hand imprinted little half moons into Stephen's skin where they burrowed into his firm backside, causing Stephen to make another beautifully needy sound.

Everett opened him up carefully, taking his time with just one finger before adding another, and another. By the time he felt Stephen was ready, he was rock hard himself and barely able to refrain from just shoving it in and fucking the living daylights out of his best friend forever.

Luckily, Stephen wasn't likewise inhibited. “Come on already,” he demanded roughly. “I'm ready, I've been ready, get on with it!”

Well, no need to ask again if he was really quite certain. Everett took out his fingers, held them under the spray for a moment – and froze. “Umh. I don't have any...” He trailed off.

“No need, at least not on my part,” Stephen snarled. “Frequent tests while I still worked in hospitals, and no opportunity to catch anything since. And you?”

“I've...” Everett frowned. “I never had unsafe sex during this life. Nor any other I remember, for that matter. But I've also never been tested, and if there'd ever been an issue with the rubber, I wouldn't know.” He felt the raging hard-on between his legs flagging a little and looked down at Stephen to see desperate frustration in his eyes, accompanying the realization that this was going nowhere.

“Sometimes I hate the fact that you are such a responsible person,” Stephen proclaimed sulkily. He climbed out of Everett's arms and got back on his own two feet. Everett felt like a total failure.

He rallied quickly, though. “Don't go anywhere,” he said, hurriedly exiting the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist.

Not three minutes later, he was back, flushed a brilliant red, but triumphantly carrying actual lube and a box of condoms. “I knew there'd be enough lube in medical, but I had only a faint hope the cabinets there would be quite this well-stocked with everything else!”

Stephen looked over his shoulder at Everett, who only now got the full impact of what he was seeing. The shower was now set to a mild rain only from above. His friend was standing amidst the falling water, some fingers of his good hand up his own arse, chest extended outward and head thrown back in pleasure.

Uh.

“Lube?” he offered uncertainly, holding out the tube.

Stephen's fingers sadly reappeared, moving around a little so as to wash off the soap, the whole body then straightening up as he fully turned around to get the offered tube. Everett's eyes dropped to his crotch. “Oh, good, you didn't finish without me.”

“Don't be silly,” Sherlock said with his own native brand of arrogance, like he could hardly believe the stupidity inherent in what had just been said. “Why would I do the work myself when I have you to do it for me?”

“Why indeed!” So true. John did not feel like complaining right at this moment, though, not at all. He happily dropped his towel, took one of the condoms from the box, opened the package and rolled it over his still solid erection. It had been a mite painful to walk with.

Also, the other doctor's and Barnes's looks when he burst into the facility clad only in a tented towel and frantically searching for lube and condoms had been priceless.

Now properly attired, he rejoined Stephen in the shower. “Did you miss me?” he asked sweetly.

“Not funny,” Sherlock grumbled, but kissed him nonetheless. John suppressed a belated shiver at the echo his own words evoked in his mind. Then he felt the warmth of the kiss, the hot shower water and the nearness of Sherlock's body and it all fell away. They had died together twice, but right now they were both alive and well – or mostly well, in Sherlock's case – and this was a moment to enjoy. All worries and past traumata could wait.

John leaned into the kiss, his body once more connecting with Sherlock's across all available surface: mouth, chests, cocks, legs, all mashed together hot, wet and wonderful. John forced his arms to let go of Sherlock's shoulders where they'd settled as though by a will of their own. He crowded Sherlock backwards until he was up against the wall, then put both his hands on the tiles next to Sherlock's head.

Sherlock moaned and pushed his swollen cock up towards John's crotch. John furiously rubbed himself against Sherlock's belly while he devoured his mouth in a bruising kiss. Their wet chests slid smoothly against one another, hips grinding, hands clutching, their mouths connecting them in a kiss that managed to be thoroughly filthy despite the clear hot water around them.

“Enough,” Sherlock demanded breathlessly. “Stop teasing and get inside me already!”

“As you wish,” John cheekily replied. He loved being all strong and in control, it made him feel _entitled_ to tease. Like he was desirable and capable enough that he could afford to make light of this.

Once more putting his hands beneath Sherlock's buttocks, he lifted the slender man up. Fantastically long legs immediately wrapped around his waist, freeing his hands to test the give of Sherlock's hole, then guide his cock to it.

Both men groaned as he slid inside.

Sherlock's left arm threaded under John's arm and around his back, hand grabbing hold of his shoulder and pulling him in impossibly tighter. The head hosting a genius brain and currently sporting a wet mop of black hair came to rest underneath John's chin. Sherlock seemed to attempt to crawl into John – and stay there.

John for his part was putting his back into pushing Sherlock up against the wall, keeping him both trapped and secure. He never wanted to let Sherlock out of his sight again. John knew logically that he would have to, that they both had different callings in this life and their paths would have to lead them apart from each other occasionally. But right at this moment, all he wanted to do was to hold on and imagine he'd never have to let go again.

For a moment, they stayed still, their embrace frozen in time, both of them treasuring the moment. Then one or the other moved. John would never be able to say who, but it didn't matter. The friction made them both whimper with desire. Arousal took over, ending the moment of blissful closeness and turning it into something rough and adrenaline-packed.

John's hands on Sherlock's hips tightened as he pulled out, lifting Sherlock's lean body up, then dropping him back onto his cock. Sherlock got in on the action, using his legs' hold on John's hips to aid the man in lifting him up and down as he pleased. His head fell back against the tiles at some point, baring his long, graceful neck. John pounced on it, sucking on the Adam's apple, biting around the collar bones and peppering the chin, throat and neck with tiny kisses, nibs and love bites.

At some point, Sherlock's upper body went entirely limp, only his still working legs reassuring John that Sherlock wasn't signing out on him. Still, it was worrisome. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

Sherlock's head slowly lifted back up. The eyes staring at John were red-rimmed and blown wide. “Yes, I… I...” John stopped moving. Something was definitely not okay here. “What is it, my dragon?”

The wide eyes looked like some spooked animal's. “Just don't let go, John. Don't you ever let go.”

Oh.

“I will never, ever choose to leave you,” John promised, answering the question Sherlock hadn't voiced, but asked loud and clear all the same. John stared straight at Sherlock, willing him to hear the truth of his words. “We died, and both times, it took us much too long to find each other again. But we _did_ find each other, never forget that. And if we die here, we will always find each other again. That, I promise.”

Sherlock still looked a bit lost. John racked his brain on how to reassure him. An idea hit him. “You're a wizard now,” he said.

“Magician.”

“Well, alright. But listen: You already dealt with different realities, alternate universes. I am sure you can research our rebirths and figure out a way we can stay together from end to start, or maybe at least find each other much sooner. After all, you are a genius.”

“That is true,” Sherlock replied. It still sounded a bit weak, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am indeed.” For a few moments, they both listened to the droplets softly pattering to the floor around them. Then, as had happened before, someone moved and they were strongly reminded of what they had been doing before Sherlock's emotions unexpectedly barged in.

John pulled Sherlock into a fierce hug, then he let go of his shoulders in favor of getting a good grip on his hips once more. “I feel we are not very good at this sex thing,” he commented off-hand as he started thrusting again.

“Not true,” Sherlock replied on a gasp, “you are doing spectacularly.”

“Why thank you,” John said, raising a brow but keeping up a steady rhythm. He loved this crazy strong body! “What I meant, though, was that we never lose focus like this while chasing a criminal or solving a mystery.”

“Well this isn't life and death,” Sherlock huffed, his hands now in John's hair, gripping tightly. “But also, two words: underground bomb.”

John groaned, and not with pleasure. "You utter prick." Then his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. When you pretended there was no simple off-switch, making me think we were going to buy it already that early in the game - were you actually trying to get me to say something sentimental?" His narrowed eyes grew rounded. "Were you hoping for an 'I love you'?"

Sherlock scoffed, but even disregarding the pleased whimper that ruined it, it would have sounded fake.

"You were!" Rather than outrage, John felt another wave of exasperated fondness and... "If you are still wondering," he leaned in to whisper softly in Sherlock's ear: "I love you."

Sherlock moaned at the words, then his legs clamped tight around John's hips and his entire body shuddered as he came. John quickly drew back from Sherlock's ear to watch his friend's face go all slack as he lost himself to pleasure. The sight was enough to spur him into chasing his own orgasm with several more deep thrusts that shook Sherlock all the way through, making the man moan and whimper even after his own climax had passed.

Then John's own body tensed and released. He lent forward, boxing Sherlock in between his muscular body and the wall. His forehead came to rest on Sherlock's.

For a while, they did nothing but listen to each other's breaths slowing from harsh pants to a steadier cadence.

Sherlock lifted his head to look John in the eyes. "We should do that again sometime."

"I am one hundred percent with you on that," John replied before he took a step away from the wall and carefully put Sherlock back down on his own two feet. His cock slipped free. With a grimace, he took off the soiled rubber and stepped out of the shower to bin it. Then he returned to wash up side by side with Sherlock. Exiting the shower again a few lazy minutes later, he took up his towel from earlier, passing a second one to his friend.

“So, my handsome genius,” John asked tentatively while reaching for his clothes, “will you tell me what brought on that sudden burst of emotion earlier?”

Sherlock got that mulish look in his eyes that said he was about to invent an elaborate lie rather than talk about it; but then he bared his teeth in a snarl and visibly struggled to force down the urge. “I was feeling a lot of intense emotions,” he confessed straight-out. A _Strange_ behavior, John suspected. Strange, but welcome. Forcing himself to keep dressing so as not to spook Stephen out of his openness, he just made a vaguely affirmative noise.

“I suspect I have always needed you. But I was not aware of the physical component to my need. It is distracting, but also highly welcome. This is...” His voice suddenly sounded choked. “I have had sexual relations before, but not like this. Never like this.”

That… huh. “You have never had sex like this?”

“Not in any way that counts, no.” Stephen looked a bit bashful. “This was my first time with a man, but more importantly, this is the first time it really _matters_. I never had anyone in my life who was as important as you.”

“Your first time,” Everett said, a hint of awe in his voice. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Irrelevant information,” Stephen answered. “I knew you would be careful regardless.”

So much trust, but also so much suppressed doubt and worry. Everett felt a wave of fondness flood through him. “You know I would never hurt you.”

Stephen cocked his head in a reptilian manner, but what he said was all Sherlock: “Unless of course you're angry at me. Then you will not hesitate to punch me in the face repeatedly.”

“Well yes,” John allowed. “But you really deserved that one… er, those four? Five?”

“Seven, actually, by the time you were done.” Dry humor sparkled in Stephen's eyes. He was apparently quite reconciled with John's aggressive actions after Sherlock's return. “And yes, I did deserve those.”

"Well, as long as we agree on that," John quipped. Then he came over, now fully dressed, and drew a willing Stephen into another hug. "Say... do you want to come live with me?"

Stephen flinched. "I need to stay at the Sanctum a lot of the time in order to protect it. In fact, now that I am better, I will have to return there soon."

"Alright," Everett said easily, "so is there room for me in the Sanctum, then?"

Stephen hugged him harder. "Yes, of course! I will even help you with the commute."

Everett grinned down at him. "I will need to take off this bracelet again if you're making good on your threat of carrying me bridal style."

A pensive look took over Stephen's face. "You know, I enjoyed being manhandled by you more than I expected."

_Translation: I like having you take care of me_ , Everett thought to himself. 

"But I am more used to your regular body, and I am curious what sex will be like with you smaller than me," Stephen continued. "I wouldn't want you running around like a Captain America look-alike all the time."

Everett was glad to hear it. He hadn't been really worried that Stephen only wanted him now because of his new body, but it was hard not to feel relieved at having it stated outright.

"Regardless, I was once again talking about portals rather than the Cloak. Instantaneous travel, very handy. But I take it you'd actually enjoy being carried by me?" 

Everett blushed a little but didn't deny it. "Flying always was fun," he admitted. Bilbo missed his big, comfy dragon.

Smaug's intense gaze focused on him. "Or is it the bridal style that intrigues you?" His eyes widened. "Are you perhaps picturing me carrying you across the threshold?" 

Everett gulped, mouth suddenly dry. "I wasn't until right now." He couldn't even say he hated the idea, ridiculous though the picture forming before his inner eye might be. They were already going to end up living together until the next catastrophe did them in. Why not make it official?

"Stephen," Everett gathered enough moisture to croak, "is this a proposal?"

Stephen blinked. "Huh. No. But... it can be, if you want it to?"

"Oh my God, yes!"

* * *

T'Challa had called in a flock of specialists to analyze Barnes's various triggers and traumata before the man was even awake after the surgery. The moment when Everett streaked in to snatch up some supplies had been the quiet before the storm, Barnes having just woken up and not yet being beleaguered by the medical, psychological and technical team.

That had changed significantly once Everett and Stephen emerged from Everett's little apartment in the fortress and headed for medical to change the dressing on Stephen's steadily healing wound. They met a pacing Captain America in front of the doors, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. "...can't go in... falsify results... but what if..."

"Captain Rogers," Everett said, placing his still super-human hand on the equally huge Captain's shoulder, "we're going in now to change Stephen's bandage. Want to join us?"

Hope seared through the man's bright eyes like a lightning bolt. Still, he wavered. "They threw me out because my presence might hinder the exam," he said, ending with a questioning lilt.

"Bollocks," Stephen scoffed. "They just want to play up their own importance. Trust me, I know the type."

"You _are_ the type," Everett huffed.

"Takes one to know one," Stephen smirked.

Rogers bounced on the balls of his feet in nervous anticipation. "So we can really go in?"

"Sure," Everett said, leading the way.

Inside, it was bedlam. The Winter Soldier had one of the doctors pinned to the wall by the throat, while the others were huddled in a corner, trying to talk him down.

"Bucky!" Rogers moaned in distress. "Bucky, what did they do??"

"Steve," Barnes said in the tone of voice most commonly associated with sleep-walking or heavy drug abuse. Everett saw Stephen's face twist with some quickly suppressed yearning and wondered if Doctor Strange ever indulged like Sherlock used to do.

"Stevie, where am I?" Barnes sounded as lost as a little kid alone out in the woods. You might forget all about the man hanging limply in his grasp if you closed your eyes and just listened to his voice. The noises of slow, painful suffocation would have kind of broken the spell, though.

"Bucky, it's alright," Rogers hastened to reassure his friend, hurrying to his side and putting a soothing hand on the metal arm. "We're with friends, we're safe." He pushed on the arm to lower it, putting the dangling doctor's feet back on the ground. "Can you let go of this man for me?"

Barnes blinked, then seemed to become aware of the man he was strangling for the first time. "Oh. I... sorry. I didn't mean to."

"It's alright," Rogers said, ignoring the red-faced doctor who'd have liked to protest that statement. "You didn't kill anyone, Buck. It's alright. What set you off, though?"

"I woke up," Barnes said, "and you weren't there."

Rogers looked dismayed. "But that was three hours ago! And we've met since. We talked before all those doctors came in, remember?"

Three hours? Huh. Had they been in the shower that long? Everett tried to get a sense of the time of day while surveying all the players in the room. He assumed that someone had set off one of Barnes's triggers, but you could never be too careful. Maybe there was an actual threat - besides Barnes, that was.

"I... yes, of course I remember."

No 'of course' about it, as far as Everett had heard, but alright.

"It was later. They poked at me and asked me questions and they wanted me to sit in a chair and lean back and I think I kinda lost track of things then."

Rogers groaned, then lent forward to hug the stuffing out of his friend. Everett remembered the briefing he had gotten on the Winter Soldier from Stark and Romanoff (all under the heading of being able to keep him subdued once he captured him, of course - just as the brain and full-body scans he had sent over to them had been manufactured for the sake of a purely academic argument). There had been mention of a type of torture chair used to program the Winter Soldier, erasing memories with the help of electric shocks. He would bet the Hydra agents who performed the torture had been dressed like doctors, too.

"He was tortured by doctors while tied to a chair. Were you not briefed by King T'Challa?" he inquired of one of the men standing close to the door in a carefully neutral tone. The man barely glanced over at him, eyes still on his colleague whom the metal hand _still_ hadn't entirely released. Although at least he was able to breathe again.

"We were handed his file as soon as Sergeant Barnes arrived in Wakanda," the man answered. "All of us have studied it extensively."

"Then how could this happen?"

"I don't think the information we got was very complete," the wide-eyed man replied.

Everett frowned. That didn't sound like T'Challa at all. His friend would have made sure to provide the best care he possibly could to help the man he had wronged. And Everett had personally forwarded all the information he had to T'Challa, he _knew_ the picture of that chair had been in there. Unless... "Did you get the file from the King himself?"

"No," the man said. The naked fear left his eyes as he focused his mind on the problem. "He gave it to Kanu, who passed it on to us..." His gaze wandered over to a slim figure standing in the far corner, mostly hidden by the other doctors.

Rogers, who'd apparently followed their conversation from the other end of the room, carefully guided Barnes to open his metal hand and release his captive doctor, then sit down on a stool by the wall. Only then did he turn around and walk over to Everett and his conversational partner. "Which one is Kanu?" he asked.

"It's the robot over here," Stephen's astral form said, popping out of the wall and pointing at the slender man.

"Stephen! You need to stop doing that," Everett proclaimed as he looked around for Stephen's crumbled natural body. He found it outside the doors, stretched out on a handy waiting-room bench.

His friend soon joined him, diving back into his own body and sitting up. "Why would I? There is no danger as long as you are there to watch over my body."

"I didn't even know there was a need to watch over it!" Everett fumed. "At least warn me next time!"

"I can do that," Stephen said, considering. He looked as though while the idea was entirely new to him, he understood it to have certain merits. Everett wondered how he could ever have thought Stephen Strange had more empathy than Sherlock Holmes.

"...Did you say 'robot'?" Once the immediate personal crisis was over, Everett was able to focus on the drama outside of the two of them again.

"I did," Stephen concurred. "I had a close look at him while everyone was focused on Barnes and Rogers and nobody was giving any attention to the wall. He has a port sticking out the back of his neck, and some of his motions are jerkier than they should be. My deduction is that someone replaced the doctor of King T'Challa's confidence with a robot."

Everett would have liked to scoff at the idea and accuse Sherlock of guessing, but if not the Winter Soldier, then the Avengers and their friends had effectively taught him that science could do a lot of crazy shit with people's bodies. Why not an android that looked and talked like a real human? It wasn't such a stretch.

They hastily returned to the medical center in case Rogers hadn't quite gotten Stephen's words before they left.

It turned out that he did, though. When they re-entered the large room, all the doctors save one were once more huddled in a corner, while Rogers and Barnes each held a leg and an arm with wires sticking out the ends where they had been ripped off of the once humanoid-looking android. The rest of the thing was lying between them, cackling madly and shouting "Doom, Doom!" Barnes put his foot through the robot's head. Silence reigned.

"Victor von Doom," Everett said into the quiet. "I can't say I haven't heard that name before, although I kind of wish I hadn't."

"Bad news?" Stephen asked.

"Not quite Sauron's league," Everett answered, "but he might be on par with Moriarty."

Stephen made an unhappy face, but then he brightened up again. "We must have done something right in Middle Earth, after all."

"How do you figure?"

"I always hoped that the next world would be more exciting, and now look at this!"

Everett felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'll be buggered, but... you're right."

* * *

It turned out that regular trauma triggers notwithstanding, Barnes was out of the woods where programmed trigger phrases were concerned thanks to the recent brain surgery. The Avengers were a lot happier with Everett and Stephen's presence as a consequence, and rather sad to see them go. They really had to return to their jobs, though. Doctor Doom seemed like the kind of terrorist Everett needed to sic his team on, and Stephen was looking forward to helping him in his task unless some magical emergency claimed his attention instead.

Everett had wheedled one more week of down-time out of his employers, while Stephen had popped over to the New York Sanctum for a day to see that things were still in order over there. Now Everett was wrapping up a preliminary conference call concerning the threat of Doctor Doom and wondering what to do with himself until Stephen returned.

He was glad to bump into T'Challa in the hall, who asked him to accompany him to the Avengers' quarters for a friendly get-together. This sounded pretty nice after a strategic meeting, so Everett was happy to follow his friend.

When they reached the Avengers' common room, though, both men stopped and just stared. Gangnam style was blasting full volume from the boxes, the video playing via beamer on one large wall - and the Winter Soldier was doing the horsey moves across the disco lit floor.

"What even...?" Everett mumbled.

"Are you sure you took the metal out rather than the brain?" his friend shouted in his ear.

"Stevie!" Barnes yelled just then, startling the Captain who'd entered the room through another door. "Come join me. The lyrics are crap, but the moves are kind of fun. This is much easier than jitterbugging, I think even you can do it!"

"Bucky?!" Rogers asked, sounding both distressed and amused. "What language is this even?"

"Korean."

"You speak Korean?"

"Looks like it," Barnes shrugged it off, then stuck his arse out with the _sexy laaadies_! Rogers stood frozen to the spot and just looked.

"Just do it," Barton yelled from the sofa where he was sat munching some popcorn and adding another video to the queue. "Or you can lie down for the elevator scene," he added with a snigger.

Wilson, who'd followed behind Rogers, raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh no. If you're doing that with anyone, it better be me, Rogers."

Captain America obviously had no idea what they were talking about. It was rather cute, Everett thought, though he pitied the man just a trifle for his dilemma.

"Oh yeah?" Barnes was now stalking straight towards Wilson, smooth like a big cat. "And why would that be?"

Wilson stood his ground, looked him right in the eyes and replied: "Because I'm the one actively fucking him, while you still haven't gotten your shit together and even asked. So if anyone gets to wave his ass in Steve's face, it's me."

T'Challa looked down at Everett. "Think we might better come back at a later time?"

"Oh, no no," Everett waved him off with a wide grin, "I'm rather enjoying myself." He sidled over to Barton. "Got any popcorn to spare?"

By the time Stephen returned from New York, all the Avengers, Everett, T'Challa and several other Wakandans were gathered in the now rather cramped common room, cheering on Barnes, Wilson and, strangely, Romanoff who were engaged in an epic dance-off battle. Only they weren't using a game like Dance Dance Revolution. Instead, they let Barton pick ridiculous and or just ridiculously popular youtube videos and then attempted to copy the moves as precisely as possible.

Wilson clearly had the most experience with the styles of dancing and obviously already knew the _Time Warp_ , while Romanoff had the flexibility and artistic expression of her Black Widow training going for her, scoring heavily at _Flashdance_ ; only Rogers knew how much Barnes might have known about dancing before his Fall (Everett couldn't help capitalize the incident in his head, there was just something about people falling that always got to him), but the Winter Soldier certainly was _fit_ and an incredibly fast learner at that. He could make even _What Does the Fox Say_ look sexy. 

It was embarrassing, really, when all three of them swung their buns to _My Anaconda_ and half the audience started drooling. 

Stephen lent over the back of the couch and put his mouth next to Everett's ear. If he hadn't already been keyed up, that certainly would have had him clutching a pillow to his lap. "So while everyone is watching the dancers, have you spared a glance at Rogers?"

Everett did so now, and his earlier mix of amusement and pity returned full force. Rogers was perched on the edge of his seat, looking ready to jump up any time now, but utterly confused as to who he should run to. His eyes kept flicking from Wilson to Romanoff to Barnes and back. He was panting, his muscular chest heaving with it, but obviously didn't know what to do about it. The man was gone on Wilson, everyone had seen that at a glance, but he seemed equally in love with his best friend forever. Romanoff, of course, was in a class of her own, but Rogers's eyes kept roaming her body just as much as the two men's.

Barton grinned over at Everett and Stephen as he started the next video. Everett had to bite his knuckles to keep from laughing out loud as he heard _"I had the time of my life..."_ Wilson, Barnes and Romanoff looked at each other, figuring out quickly that this dance required them to have a partner. All three turned simultaneously to Rogers, but the man was frozen solid, looking at them with helpless, wide eyes. 

Then Romanoff broke the spell by smirking and falling into Wilson's arms. Barnes silently took a step back.

They looked good together. God, they looked amazing together!

Everett thought Romanoff might have been making a point when she chose Wilson, but wasn't sure what it was. Did she think Rogers would get up to partner up with Barnes now? Or was she trying to show Wilson off to the man? Or herself? He remembered Rogers and Wilson mentioning Romanoff when he and Stephen had worked out that they were both bisexual (and idiots for not being in a physical relationship sooner).

But then Romanoff showed her hand. The next time they whirled by Barnes, she left Wilson and dragged Barnes back onto the floor. From then on, she went back and forth between the two men. And all _three_ of them looked good together. With a wink and a quiet smile, Natasha finally pushed Wilson into Barnes' arms, and the men went with it. 

And they looked good together, too.

Everett thought watching them was a bit depressing for an average guy like him who only occasionally had a droolworthy body thanks to his magic jewelery and who certainly couldn't dance like that. But then Stephen's hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder and suddenly it was alright. 

He looked over at Rogers again, who was now sitting up straight, jaws firming like he was about to do something ridiculously brave and stupid.

And indeed: Before the song even ended, Steve Rogers was on his feet, striding towards the dancers. All three of them stopped in their motion, looking at him with fire in their eyes. Shoulders were thrown back, eyebrows raised, feet tapping. Challenge lay in every nuance of their stances. 

Well, Rogers. What will you do? 

Everett had heard Barnes refer to Rogers as 'the most mule-headed, righteous little idiot on the planet's face I swear to God'. Right now, that seemed to be working in his favor. "I am deeply sorry, but I just can't help myself," Rogers declared. "You may all punch me later." 

With these words, Rogers stepped up to Natasha, cocked his head, and when she didn't rebut him, took her face in his hands and kissed her. Not allowing himself to linger, he gently released her, turned around a little and grabbed Wilson by the hips, drawing him in for a bruising kiss of his own. Wilson went along happily. Again, Rogers let go much too soon and turned further around, bringing him face to face with Barnes. His hand softly caressed his friend's cheek before tangling in his hair and pulling him in. _This_ kiss lingered. 

When they finally broke apart, both men were wide-eyed and panting. "That was..." 

"...late," Rogers finished. "And I actually mean that, this time." They grinned at each other. Then they linked elbows and turned to the others. Rogers blushed furiously, but the smile stayed on his face. "Anyone care to punch me now?" 

"If that is what you like," Romanoff purred. "Otherwise, I'd suggest finding a nice bed that fits four."

Rogers looked at her like she was his own personal angel of salvation. Only a little hesitantly, he turned questioning eyes to his sole official partner. "Sam, you on board with this?"

Wilson flashed his white teeth in a feral smile. "You know how it is: I do what you do. Just slower."

Rogers hugged him. Turning back around to Barnes, he asked: "Think your Winter Soldiering mind can deal with this, Buck?" 

"It will be my new mission," Barnes dead-panned.

"Then I'll audition to be your handler," Romanoff quipped. "Trust me to handle you well?" 

There was something deeper than lust between them when Barnes answered: "I will trust you not to get hurt." 

Rogers had tears in his eyes at the exchange.

Everett leaned forward to catch T'Challa's eyes past some people he didn't even know crowded between them on the humongous sofa. "I believe _now_ is a good time to leave."

* * *

They made it back their suite - Stephen had moved in with Everett for the time being - in record time. There, they barely wasted five seconds to close the door and switch on the light before clothes were flying haphazardly across the room. Hands started roaming before all the clothes were off, mouths latching on to whatever was bared next. Stephen was still wearing his pants when his hand reached for Everett's naked and dripping erection. Everett, in turn, had his lips closed tight around his friend's nipple even as his own shirt was still buttoned up.

They were quite happy with their position for a while, but then Everett's hands got busy with Stephen's belt while Stephen tried (and mostly failed) to open Everett's buttons with his lips and teeth. It did feel kind of good, though, and Everett didn't dream of complaining.

Moments later, they fell into bed naked. Everett was in his usual body, and when Stephen fell on top of him, he had to take care not to squish the smaller man. "You feel so good," he breathed.

Everett, for his part, was busy not coming just from the feeling of being enveloped in Stephen's body. He didn't manage a verbal answer, but his legs came up to wrap around Stephen's hips. Stephen gasped and started to move against him. The friction was lovely.

Everett reached for Stephen's neck and pulled him down for a kiss. It started out hot and open-mouthed and only got messier as it went. Their bodies developed a life of their own, furiously rubbing against one another without any conscious guidance on their part. Everett's thoughts went something like _Stephen - love love love - Sherlock – give it to me - yes, Smaug, please - warm, so lovely - I wonder what happened to Mrs. Hudson - Sherlock - hot, uh - c'mere, faster, yes - Stephen - so good - glad you didn't die on me - just don't – don't – God yes. Oh, yes._ _This is good. Just there, yes._ _Just like -_

"Yes!" he actually shouted out loud, startling himself. With the next thrust, he came, spreading sticky essence all over both of their bellies. Stephen groaned and moved faster, his hard cock sliding through the mess, desperately seeking friction. Everett scooted up the bed a little, offering the crease between leg and thigh to Stephen. With a happy whine, Stephen rutted against it. It didn't take long before he also released his semen between them.

With a happy sigh, Stephen dropped to the bed beside Everett, immediately cuddling close. Everett hugged him tight and rubbed his cheek against his friend's hair. "So happy that you're here," he murmured. Stephen mumbled something affirmative. Everett grabbed for some paper tissues from the bedside table to perfunctorily wipe both of them off. Carelessly dropping the used things beside the bed, he wrapped both arms back around Sherlock and gave in to the warmth and the joy of being together. The last thing he thought before nodding off was _I don't want to die_ _again._ _But even if I do, I'll have had this._

* * *

"So. We're leaving," Everett announced. He looked around at the people gathered in the Avengers' common room to see them off. T'Challa, all the fugitive Avengers and a few more recent friends were sitting and standing around the room, some cheerful, others in more somber moods.

Rogers looked close to tears. "I enjoyed getting to know you both," he explained at Everett's questioning look. "It'll be sad to be enemies again after you leave."

Everett blinked. "Who said anything about enemies?"

Rogers unclenched his teeth long enough to gripe: "Well the Deputy Task Force commander of the JCTC isn't exactly supposed to be friendly with outlaws like us."

"Neither is the King of Wakanda," T'Challa mildly interjected, "yet here I am."

Rogers's mouth, already opened to protest, snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. His stony look turned pensive. "What are you saying?"

Stephen took over. "It would be rather silly for Everett here to continue hunting you all while knowing where you are - and being in the perfect position to solve this dilemma without cost-intense manhunts and tedious press conferences. He can connect you with Stark. He can connect Stark with some figures of authority. Hence, you can plead your case through various mediators and decoys. I, for one, am interested in seeing the people safe who helped us more appropriately define our relationship." He beamed a fake smile at Rogers that somehow managed to feel sincere despite being very obviously put on.

Everett tried to puzzle out if Stephen had intended the smile to be fake but had been overwhelmed with real emotion - or if he had meant to make it a real smile, but did not quite get past Sherlock's facade even now. Distracted, he nearly missed Barnes's murmured protest.

"Plead our case, huh? Like they'll ever let a killer like me walk free." His face was much darker than Rogers's.

"They might," he addressed the concern. "After all, you were a victim of long-term torture and imprisonment. I am confident that if all the details were revealed and the case brought in front of the right judge, we could clear your name completely."

"They got those reinforcements for your triggers out," Wilson added his support, "and your therapy is going great now. Give it a few months and we can say without lying that you have defeated your programming and are no longer a danger to society."

"I'm still happiest doing what I'm told, though," Barnes said darkly. "I still follow orders."

"Only Steve's," Sam said like that didn't count.

"Don't we all," Barton added.

Everett considered that. Huh. Maybe it really didn't count, not if you were with the Avengers; and in Barnes's case, with a military background to boot. A thought came to him, and before he could stop himself, he'd voiced it: "If Rogers told you to stand on one leg, would you do it?"

Rogers and Barnes looked at him blankly, while everyone else broke out into startled laughter. Lang - Everett had finally allowed that he had _some_ skill, after trading stories with the guy one night - slapped Barnes on the shoulder and told him: "We'll catch you up on some movies tonight, how's that sound?"

Smiling, Everett stepped close to Stephen. "Time to go, I think."

"It is," Stephen agreed, his cloak floating up and a corner wrapping itself around Everett to pull them closer to each other.

They said their goodbyes to everyone, promising to stay in touch and to visit often. Then Stephen made a portal in the air and they both stepped through, ready to face the rest of this life side by side.

* * *

_A few days later..._

"...and so he told me all about their time in the world known as Middle Earth," Scott continued. The other guys were hanging off of his lips. "He wasn't entirely human there, he said, smaller than a dwarf. And he worked as a burglar! Can you imagine? Mister Ross of the Joint Counter-Terrorist Center, breaking and entering!" He grinned widely. 

"Now you're just messing with us," Wilson accused. 

Scott got a mock-pitying look in his eyes. "And there I haven't even mentioned the best part," he said. "Like how Strange really was a dragon in that world. And he and Everett used to be enemies!" 

"I can't see it," Steve declared. "Strange as a dragon, yes. Somehow, that actually works for me. But him and Ross being enemies? That is just... It's..." 

"Yes," Bucky quietly agreed. "It doesn't fit." 

"Which is why they teamed up the moment they met!" Scott disclosed triumphantly. "And they stayed together until their tragic end." 

"Tragic?" Clint questioned. "What happened to them?" 

Scott told them. 

Suddenly, it was very, very quiet in the room. "What?" Scott asked, looking around. "What??" 

Sam gulped and took a hold of Steve's left hand. "You said Everett was shot off the dragon and fell, only to not-quite die on impact and _watch his friend fall and die._ " 

"After he had already watched him _fall_ in a previous life," Steve whispered, clutching Bucky's arm with his right hand hard enough to bruise. It was the metal one, though. Bucky used his flesh-and-blood hand to clutch back. "It sucks to watch someone you care about fall," he said, looking at Steve. 

Scott raised his hands. "Okay, okay, so not a good topic with you guys. Alright. But get this: Strange made Ross think he'd died in that first fall _for two years_ , and then he came back like nothing happened! And after Ross punched him a few times, he pretty much just accepted him back without a fuss!"

Again, he did not get quite the reaction he expected. Instead of being as outraged as he was, everyone looked all sympathetic and smiling. Natasha sauntered in, not even pretending she hadn't been listening, and patted Scott on one cheek. "One day, you will regain someone you thought you had lost, and then you might understand." The _little one_ remained unspoken. Scott heard it anyway and frowned. 

Just then, his phone rang. "Yep?" 

_"Uh, hi. It's Everett. Stephen says he needs Doctor Pym, but can't get a hold of him. He's not answering his phone and we don't know where he is. Do you have any ideas where he might be? It's kind of urgent."_

"Why?" Scott asked, alarmed. 

_"Well, Stephen found someone in a different dimension wearing a suit that looked a bit like yours. She's_ really _tiny, though, and..."_

~ The End ~ 

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. All done. ; )  
> [This](http://johnlocked-shipper.tumblr.com/post/99669852778/doesnt-even-need-photoshop), by the way, is what inspired me to accuse John of having impure thoughts at the Pool... :P


End file.
